


i am hopelessly a lover

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: For a moment, she pictures herself pulling him to her by his shirt, begging him to stay safe at her side. The thought disappears at soon as it appears, leaving her frowning and confused.





	i am hopelessly a lover

**Author's Note:**

> *looks left* *looks right* so apparently I'm the first one to post a mature fic for this pairing, huh? *awkward laughter*

Smoke fills Rosaline’s lungs, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as she coughs it away with little to no result. She is barely aware of her surroundings, nothing but screams and cries and Benvolio’s solid arm around her waist as he leads her away from the riot. She cannot tell right from left in the maze of streets that become Verona, until her back is pressed against the cold bricks of a small alley between two shops, until she is able to catch her breath again in a broken sob. She fights against the panic attack rising within her, even more so when she remembers her sister’s hand slipping away from hers.

“Livia,” she breathes in a desperate attempt at going back where they came from.

Benvolio is having none of it, pressing her back against the wall when she tries to escape, his body shielding hers from the busy street. “She will be fine,” he tells her, the words falling on deaf ears. “Count Paris was with her. He will protect her.”

Rosaline wants to protest, but she knows Benvolio’s argument to be true. She has seen the devotion in the count’s eyes when longingly gazing at her sister, and knows what it means. Livia deserves such love and care, especially during such troubling times. If Count Paris was with her sister, then Rosaline knows her to be safe, for he would lay his life for her if it came to it.

“All right,” she whispers, more to herself than to Benvolio.

He seems to ease at her words, only for the both of them to tense again when another, louder, cry makes itself heard. Benvolio reacts before Rosaline even has time to understand was is happening, hand on the hilt of his sword as he leads her further down the alley, until she is hidden from view by a couple of barrels. He wraps her fingers around the hilt of the knife he usually wears at the hip, Rosaline’s hand trembling as it holds the weapon.

Then, gently, delicately, he raises his hands to cup her cheeks – his wedding ring is cold against her burning skin, his eyes soft where his features are tense and closed-off. Readying himself for battle, and something within Rosaline reels at the thought. For a moment, she pictures herself pulling him to her by his shirt, begging him to stay safe at her side. The thought disappears at soon as it appears, leaving her frowning and confused.

Even more so when Benvolio’s warm lips find her forehead in a sealing kiss. He lingers for two full seconds, his fingers tightening their hold on her face, before he steps away with a promise to be back soon. And then he runs toward the main street and the commotion, leaving Rosaline alone with her barrels, her knife and her confused mind.

It seems like hours, but perhaps it is only a matter of minutes, before she hears her name being called out, before Livia throws herself at her with a gasping sob, her tiny arms around Rosaline’s waist and her hair in her mouth. Rosaline returns her sister’s embrace, relieved and grateful that she is unharmed. She closes her eyes for a moment, relishing in the warmth of Livia’s body against her – her skin has the copper smell of blood, mixed with smoke, but nothing a long bath cannot cure.

When she opens her eyes again, they find Count Paris standing a few feet away from them, and she mouths a silent thanks to him, to which he replies with a solemn nod. And then she finds Benvolio by the man’s side – his cheek is cut and bleeding, the sleeve of his coat torn off, but he is still standing. Thanks God for small mercies.

“Let’s get you home,” he tells her.

Count Paris helps Livia to her feet, holding her to his side with a solid arm around her waist. Rosaline would protest to how improper such a gesture is, coming from a man who is neither Livia’s husband nor her suitor, but she finds that she cares very little about such things when her body is too busy shivering. Benvolio notices, and shrugs off his leather coat to wrap it around her shoulders. The thing is heavy, and smells like sweat and blood and horses, but Rosaline doesn’t mind much. Not when Benvolio also wraps an arm around her shoulders and helps her all the way back to their house, careful not to walk too fast and to hold her up when her feet threaten to unbuckle beneath her.

The servants are quick to take care of Livia, but Benvolio dismisses them with a flick of the hand when they try to come to Rosaline’s help. He is the one bringing them to the bedroom they share, the one to sit her down on the bed, the one to bring a cold sponge to her face and delicately clean the grim and dust of the day off her skin.

She looks into his blue eyes as he purposefully evades hers, and wonders about this man who turned out to be nothing like she had imagined. His fierceness after the announcement of their wedding had turned to resignation once the ceremony passed. At first, Rosaline had believed he would simply go on with his life as if pretending she didn’t exist – whoring and drinking himself into a torpor every night – but he had done none of the kind. Instead, he is home every evening, having supper with her then reading silently to the candle light, before falling asleep by her side.

Two months of this life, and the only complain Rosaline now has is that Benvolio Montague snores a little too loudly when he sleeps on his back.

“Rose, are you all right?” he asks her after a while, his eyes finally meeting her. “You seem in shock, my beloved.”

She shakes her head ever so slightly, before frowning down at him. “How did you call me?”

He frowns back, before he carefully repeats, “My beloved?”

But it is not the sarcastic pet name that caught her attention – this one she is used to by now, for he uses it as often as possible to roust a reaction out of her. A roll of the eyes, more often than not, or a frustrated little huff if the occasion presents itself.

“No. Rose.”

His answering frown has Rosaline wondering if he even noticed the pet name escaping his lips, or if it simply rolled on his tongue unnoticed. It should scare her, perhaps, the implications of such an act too obvious to be ignored. The warmth within her belly only makes matter worse, especially when Benvolio offers her a smile – nothing more than a small tug of his lips at one corner of his mouth, but a smile nonetheless.

She wants to resent him for this, but finds her feelings on the matter to be quite the opposite. And then, she suddenly realises that not once did Escalus cross her mind today – her worry was only for her sister, and for Benvolio. She waits for guilt to overcome her, but nothing happens in that department. Instead, there is only relief that both Livia and her husband are now safe and sound.

And perhaps it is what scares her the most, this wall of emotions she runs into all of a sudden, this overpowering conclusion presenting itself to her. Rosaline wonders if it is really that unexpected, or if she was simply too good at keeping the feelings at bay, at pretending they did not even exist in the first place, as acting like anger and hatred never blossomed into something more.

“Say it again,” she breathes in the silent of the room.

Benvolio tilts his head to the side, as if searching for the trick behind her words. But there is no trick to be found, not when she offers him a kind smile, not when she leans toward him slightly. His eyes flick to her mouth, for barely more than a second, before meeting her gaze again, before a tentative smile curl up his mouth.

“Rose,” he replies, with more softness in his voice than any man ought to breathe. And then, “ _My Rose_.”

Perhaps this, more than anything else, is her downfall. She moves forward on the bed, until her chest brushes against his, until she can grab his neck and pull him toward her. Decency would want the kiss to be chaste and short-lived, a caress of the lips. Decency is not to be found today, not when he tastes like blood and grief and desperation, not when his mouth is soft and pliant against her, not when a graze of her teeth against his lip gets the most delightful groan out of him.

Rosaline had only kissed one other man before today, but drawing comparisons seems unnecessary now for nothing compares to the heat of Benvolio’s kiss, to the tightening of his fingers on her jaw, to the tilt of his head to deepen the kiss. Nothing compares to her own heart racing against her ribcage and her mind feeling lighter that it’s been in weeks, and Benvolio’s hot puff of air against her cheek when he breaks away from the kiss to breathe, only to kiss her again even more ardently only seconds later.

“Finally,” he breaths against her mouth between two kisses, the shadow of a grin pressed into her lips.

Rosaline finds herself grabbing the lapels of his shirt as she leans back in bed. Her skirts make the whole affair trickier than she would have liked, but Benvolio follows suit without an ounce of complain, leaning above her without even breaking away from the kiss. His weight on her is something Rosaline isn’t accustomed to, but she finds herself enjoying it far more than she would have thought – it is overwhelming, his hard body against her, his hand caressing her neck, his smell invading her nose.

Not as overwhelming as the warmth pooling deep within her stomach, her mind buzzing with want and desire. Rosaline had never allowed herself to feel that deeply about someone before, and the strength of her own feelings and needs takes her by surprise. Is that how couple usually feel when together? She wished she had more experience in that particular area, for she is at loss here, afraid to feel too much, to do the wrong thing, say the wrong words.

Not that Benvolio seems to particularly mind, when his fingers are now busy working their way through her curls – one by one, he throws the pins holding her hair up above his shoulder, freeing her curls from their tight updo. It makes her smile, even more so when he can’t seem to stop running his hand through her hair – playing with it and massaging her scalp and getting a moan out of that that definitely, definitely makes him laugh in between kisses.

Rosaline’s own hands travel down his neck and shoulders, before they explore the expanse of his chest above the fabric of his shirt. Her nails scrap against his toned stomach, making him flinch and laugh once more, before he leans away from her.

His eyes, usually the pale blue of the morning sky, are dark and stormy in the candle light, and he stares down at her long enough for self-consciousness to appear at the corners of Rosaline’s mind. She wonders what he sees in her now – if she became more than the Capulet harpy to him, or if she is nothing but one more woman on a long list. Jealousy surges through her veins at the latter thought, sharp and painful – jealousy and possessiveness. He stopped his visits to the whore house after the wedding ceremony, but never before had Rosaline wanted to make sure he was _hers_ , body and mind and maybe, possibly, heart.

His fingers caress her face, with a tenderness she would never have thought possible of him, when he asks, “Are you certain?”

It takes Rosaline a few seconds to understand the meaning behind his words, and then she finds herself grateful that the darkness of her skin and of the room around them hides the deep flush of her cheeks. She is far from the blushing maiden, but the gravity of the moment finally dawns on her as she gazes into Benvolio’s eyes. She sees desires and lust in them, but it comes with the unwavering knowledge that he would stop if he asked her to. He has never forced himself on her before, ever the gentleman despite their cruel situation and their uncles’ need for an heir, and Rosaline has no doubt that he would not change his beliefs now. For that, she is all the more grateful – maids have tales of their first time Rosaline doesn’t want to see repeated on her.

Still, his question remains, and it takes her several more moments before she leans into his space again. Her nose brushes against his, tentatively at first, then more playfully as a smiles graces her lips.

“I am,” she replies gravely.

He nods at her, before he stands up so suddenly it makes Rosaline gasp, the sound turning into a yelp when he grabs her arms and pulls her up. She loses her balance for a moment, falling into his chest with a little laugh that makes him grin. He has a beautiful smile, one she has seen more in the last ten minutes than in the weeks since their introduction. He should smile more, and perhaps he will now.

But for now, he turns her around so her back is to him, and holds her hair, putting it above her shoulder. Rosaline looks back at him just in time to catch a glimpse of his face before he kisses her neck, a shiver running down her spine at the gesture of affection. Then his fingers are working on the laces of her dress, until it slips down her body and pools around her feet in a pile of purple fabric. The corset follows suit, leaving her in nothing but her chemise and petticoat.

Those are not discarded straight away, for Benvolio’s hands start exploring her body then – she leans back against his chest when his fingers brush against her stomach, barely represses a moan when he caresses her hip, then her thigh. Her body aches for him, her breaths laboured, and she leans her head against his shoulder, closes her eyes when he kisses her neck.

This is all too much, and barely enough – she needs more, needs to feel his body pressed on top of hers once more, needs, needs, needs. Not that Benvolio is giving it to her quite yet, taking his time and driving her mad with want in the process. Perhaps it is a new method of torture but, if the length of him pressed against her hip is anything to go by, then the both of them are suffering.

So Rosaline decides to take matter into her own hands, turning around in his arms to face him again, fingers finding this shirt. But he pushes her away, ignoring her indignant gasp. His motions are jerkier now, as he hurries to get rid of her petticoat and undergarments, before forcing her to sit at the edge of the bed. She frowns at him, before understanding dawns on her when he kneels on the floor between her legs.

All thoughts of maiden’s laughing whispers are soon forgotten when his lips brush against her knee, when his hands pull her legs further apart. All thoughts are forgotten, when he seals kisses into the sensitive skin of her leg, further up each time, until Rosaline lays back in bed with a wordless sigh. Her fingers find his hair, caressing and grabbing, as if willing to anchor herself to him when he breathes hot puffs of air between her legs.

She bites down on her lip, and startles at the first flick of his tongue – he holds her hips down to the mattress as his mouth tastes her once more, his wicked grin against her folds when she lets out one particularly loud moan of pleasure. It only serves to surge him forward, kissing and licking and tasting her until he leaves her a mess of gasps and sighs and groans, until she guides him where she needs him the most, with hands and breathless commands tumbling out of her mouth.

Heat pools between her legs, her muscles tensing, her body trembling, until she feels like sobbing and screaming. And screaming she does when Benvolio teases one finger at her entrance, then a second one, before thrusting them inside of her.

Rosaline barely recognises her voice in the mewling sounds coming out of her mouth, in the way she keeps repeating his name, over and over again until it feels like a prayer on her tongue, until she can think of nothing but him and his mouth, his hands, his everything. She sobs his name as she runs a hand into her own hair, her back arching and her legs tensing, before a cry escapes her, before she can only focus on the waves of pleasure deep within her, hot and magnificent.

Benvolio’s mouth stays on her, easing her back into reality, until she falls back against the mattress, until her body buzzes with the kind of satisfaction she had never felt before. His mouth and chin glisten when he moves up her body to drop kisses on her stomach, his beard scratching and tingling her sensitive skin until it makes her laugh. Her mind is lighter now, and she welcomes him into her arms without a protest, tastes herself on his tongue when he kisses her once more.

“You are wonderful,” he tells her as he noses her cheek, then her neck. “Bloody brilliant.”

He keeps muttering praises, branding them into her skin – it doesn’t sound new, like he practiced the words before, like he held them behind his teeth for way too long. She doesn’t want to think about such things, but it is all her mind is capable of focusing on, and so she wonders. Wonders how long, when it started, how she could be so blind to his devotion, so blinded by her own hatred of his blood and family to even notice the sarcasm and jabs were hiding something else, something entirely different.

“You are not so bad yourself,” she finds herself saying, the words weak in the face of her own emotions – she doesn’t know how to voice them, for they are too deep, too big and frightening.

Not that Benvolio seems to mind, leaning away to meet her eyes once more. Mischief flashes through his eyes, a smirk on his lips, as he says, “If I had known saving you would put me in your good graces, I would have done it earlier.”

She pretends to be affronted, but her mind is still clouded by her orgasm and so she can only snort a laugh at him. This seems to please him, if the happiness in his eyes, the satisfaction in the slope of his smile, are anything to go by. Yes, this suits him well – far better than his gloomy attitude of the past weeks, not that she can blame him for mourning his friends. Still, there is no doubt as to how much more she appreciates this version of him, that he had kept away from her for so long – this version that matches the rumours she had heard, of three companions with loud laughs and easy smiles, kind words and delightful temperaments.

This version of him, she realises, could be easy to love.

But love is such a complicated concept where lust is not, and so Rosaline loses herself into another one of his kisses instead, nails scrapping against his shoulders, fingers tugging at his shirt. He gets rid of it, tossing it away without a care before pressing his chest to hers once more – he’s warm and solid and alive, oh, so alive that she loses herself in the weight of his body on top of hers, loses her own mind with a brush of his fingers against one breast.

It is a few more minutes of kissing and fooling around before his breeches finally join the rest of their clothes on the floor of the bedroom. Rosaline’s fingers tremble ever so slightly when they wrap around his length, hard and silky. She feels like an unexperienced maiden, all of a sudden, so Benvolio guides her, shows her how to proceed next. His breath is hard against her neck, breathless huffs when she moves her hand up and down his length, broken laugh when her thumb brushes against the head.

“Wonderful indeed,” he whispers, teeth grazing her skin.

Unexperienced she may be, but Rosaline knows what comes next, for she opens he legs to him, guides him to her entrance. A jerk of his hips is all they need for the both of them to gasp at the newfound sensations, and another one before he is seated deep within her. One of her hands find Benvolio’s hair once more, while the other wraps around his bicep. She gasps a moan against his lips when he starts moving inside her, stretching her walls in the most delightful way. He experiments with speed and strength, until she moans, long and raw at the back of her throat.

He doesn’t stop then, and the warmth from before coils in her stomach once more, muscles tensing, mind lifting. Benvolio adds his finger at some point, rubbing against her until she can only pant and swear, until she comes for him once more with his name on her lips and in her mind. He follows a few moments later, with a groan of his own before he falls on top of her and steals the air from her lungs.

Rosaline has no idea how long they stay like this, minutes or maybe hours, before he moves away. She wants to protest at the loss of contact, but he pulls her flush against him straight away, and she leans her chin on his shoulder, looks at him through hooded eyes. He seems sated and content, a small sigh on his lips as his eyes flick to hers once more before a grin settles on his mouth.

She knew him handsome before – her hatred never turned her blind, after all – but beautiful might be a more appropriate term now, for her heart is so fond of him, for her breath seems caught in her throat when he plays with the curl of hair falling in front of her eyes. Benvolio Montague is a beautiful man, she decides, and a satisfying husband at that.

“Bliss suits you, my beloved,” he tells her, voice warm and soft and fond.

Yes. He will be an easy man to love.


End file.
